


a wolf in the night to fetch me back

by IgnoreThePineapples



Series: soldier, poet, queen [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, also, because you gotta, geralt is doing his best, jaskier says 'oh? this is my fault? guess i'll deal with it then' and adopts her, like everything i write it is soft, soft because everything i write is unbearably soft, the obligatory 'jaskier finds ciri first' fic, yen appears for like two seconds because i love her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnoreThePineapples/pseuds/IgnoreThePineapples
Summary: It was definitely a bad idea to approach this clearing. The man impaled on a spike was probably warning enough for most. But Jaskier was running low on material and hey, if he was about to be devoured by whatever monster he was about to find, it felt like a fairly appropriate way to go. Killed in the line of duty and whatnot.There’s another man skewered much in the same way, what he thinks might be a horse, and-Gods, that looks like a little girl.Or: Jaskier decides to look after the shit he'd supposedly shovelled.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: soldier, poet, queen [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756099
Comments: 46
Kudos: 931





	a wolf in the night to fetch me back

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for months and it's my actual pride and joy.

Jaskier had seen his fair share of death. Hell, this wasn’t even the first time he’d come across a man strung up on a branch like an ornament. But coming across such a scene without a Witcher was a very different and altogether more frightening experience.

It was definitely a bad idea to approach this clearing. The _man impaled on a spike_ was probably warning enough for most. But Jaskier was running low on material and hey, if he was about to be devoured by whatever monster he was about to find, it felt like a fairly appropriate way to go. Killed in the line of duty and whatnot.

The dry grass made a stealthy entry virtually impossible, which seemed strange given that he’s fairly sure this is a swamp. There was another man skewered much in the same way, what he thinks might be a horse, and-

_Gods, that looks like a little girl._

She wasn’t covered in blood the way everything else in this gods-forsaken clearing was which probably meant that this was in all likelihood the monster in disguise. Heedless of this, Jaskier threw caution to the wind and rushed over.

She couldn’t have been older than thirteen, Jaskier thought, horrified. His heart caught in his throat as she stirred, eyes blinking open slowly and frowning up at him.

Those strange eyes were very, very familiar.

//

The girl (the princess, although she hadn’t told Jaskier yet, and he couldn’t blame her) was an easier travelling companion than Geralt. Just as quiet, but less moody or aggressive about it. Then again, he hadn’t sung in front of her yet.

By the time they had reached a nearby town, she’d introduced herself as Fiona. Not a half-bad fake name, but he was far too familiar with Cintran royalty to be fooled. Even if Geralt had avoided it, Jaskier had kept his eyes on the situation. He’d also played at some of her birthday celebrations, though he couldn’t fault her for not recognising him currently. He didn’t want to think about what she’d been through.

He’d bustled her into a little inn in the first town he’d spotted, procuring a room for both of them and asking for some food to be sent up to them. He helped get her settled with quiet words and made no move to pry. She watched him with suspicious eyes and refused to hand over her dagger.

Later that night, when he wakes up to the sound of movement in the rented room, he’s immediately and understandably on high alert.

Jaskier had learned to be a light sleeper. Travelling without Geralt, there was really no other option. He knew what was out there, that it could very well kill him, and that he couldn’t kill it first.

Even if she wasn’t going to tell him, he knew very well that this was Cintra’s princess, and, if what he’d heard about Nilfgaard was correct, that there were probably a hell of a lot of people after her. But he didn’t see any malicious forces or assassins or anything remotely similar when he cracked his eye open ever so slightly.

The princess was making a break for it.

He sat up slowly, doing his best not to startle her. It didn’t work.

The princess whirled around, and flattened her back against the door. He raised his hands in a soothing gesture.

“If you want to go, I won’t stop you. But at least tell me so that I don’t panic and assume you’ve been kidnapped by Nilfgaardian soldiers.”

Her eyes widened, panicked. “I’m not-“

“It’s okay. It’s not obvious.” He nodded at his lute, propped against the wall. “I knew your family. I used to play in Cintra.”

The princess eyed him suspiciously, hand reaching for the doorknob.

“I can prove it. Do you remember when you were very young,” he pressed, “probably five or six, you wandered off and no one could find you? The whole castle was searching high and low? I found you out in the training grounds, hiding in the sword rack and watching the knights fight.”

Ciri paused.

“I didn’t take you back immediately, just crouched next to you and told you about what they were doing. And you said when you grew up, you wanted to be a knight just like them, and I promised to write a great ballad about it.”

“Dandelion?” Ciri whispered.

Jaskier nodded with a relieved smile. “Hey there, cub.”

//

Once he felt secure enough in the knowledge that Ciri felt relatively comfortable around him, Jaskier began to perform again. It was times like this he really began to regret latching onto Geralt as a muse for quite so long, as he really was rather stuck for song choice that didn’t mention his favourite Witcher. _Toss A Coin_ , even after all these years, was the one that raked in the money, which was what he needed right now.

When he returned to the table, Ciri was watching him with wide eyes.

“The lute wasn’t just for show, you know.”

“No, it’s...” She paused, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier groaned. “How do you know about Geralt?”

“I’m meant to be looking for him.” Ciri lit up, practically bouncing on her stool. “It’s Destiny, it must be. Do you know where he is? If you travelled with him you must be friends, right? Is he really like he is in the song-“

“Hold it, hold it right there.” Jaskier took a deep pull from his tankard. “In order. I don’t know where he is. He has made it very clear to me that we are in no way friends. That song is largely fictionalised, and he’s far less heroic and charming in real life- okay, that’s not quite true, but my point stands.”

Ciri deflated a little. “Oh.”

Jaskier sighed. “I’m sorry, Fiona. I wish I had better news. He’s just... He doesn’t want to find you.”

“Oh.” Her voice cracked a little.

“Oh, dear heart, come here.” He pulled her onto the bench next to him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her hair. “He’s a difficult man. It’s not personal, he’s like that with everyone, myself included. And he’s never been a fan of what Destiny had planned for him. But I found you, didn’t I? Maybe that was Destiny’s real plan. And I’ll look after you in his stead.”

She nodded, sniffing absently.

“You know, Oxenfurt is lovely this time of year.” Jaskier squeezed her shoulder. “Ever thought about your educational prospects?”

//

Even now, it seemed, he couldn’t stop himself writing about Geralt.

“ _And when you scream that it’s not fair_ ,” he hummed, strumming his lute softly, “ _it’s like I’ve gone off to the coast. Left you behind, just standing there, pretending not to see your ghost. If only you could hear my voice, but you are screaming far too loud to hear me_ -“

“Who’s that about?” Ciri asked, stirring in her bedroll.

“Same person they’re all about.” Jaskier sighed. “Go back to sleep, we’ve got to make a move in the morning.”

//

They’re in Posada when it happens, because of course they are. Destiny has an interesting sense of humour, it seems.

Jaskier was leant against the bar, lute in hand, and covered in notably less rotten tomato than last time. The innkeeper was regaling him with tales of a great beast in the hills, and the victims it had taken over the past weeks.

“My condolences.” Jaskier murmured.

“Don’t worry about it, though.”

Jaskier frowned. “Why?”

“Help’s passed through,” the barkeep informed him, leaning close, “that Witcher of yours. Should be back any time now.”

Jaskier jolted, spilling ale from his mug. Wordlessly he nodded thanks, and made his way back to their table.

“Are your belongings packed?” he asked nonchalantly, carefully placing the mugs onto the table so as not to spill anything.

Ciri looked perplexed. “Is something wrong?”

Jaskier sighed, eyeing the door over his shoulder. “We might need to make a quick getaway.”

Ciri paled. “Is it-“

“No, no,” he reassured her. “They’re here for me.”

She didn’t look reassured.

“It’s probably nothing urgent, just-“ The door to the tavern slammed open, to cheers, whistles and a tossed coin or two. _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me_. “Just maybe head up to check, okay?”

Ciri nodded, eyes flashing between the figure at the door and Jaskier, hunched over his ale and trying not to make himself noticed, before rushing off to their room.

Jaskier groaned. It was times like this that his profession as a bard became a hindrance. The bright colours of his garb, though absolutely beautiful and fashionable and utterly perfect, it was hardly suitable to remaining inconspicuous. And, or course, inconspicuous he failed to be.

Ciri hadn’t even fully disappeared up the stairs when the chair opposite had been pulled out and he was faced with none other than Geralt of Rivia.

“I don’t suppose I scared off a conquest?”

Jaskier hadn’t been angry until now. Heartbroken, yes. Shocked, hurt, of course. But not angry.

Now, he was furious.

The arrogance of him, to sit down here like nothing had changed, like he hadn’t trodden Jaskier’s heart into the ground and thrown it right back at his face.

“I’m here to drink alone.” Jaskier hadn’t looked up from his tankard.

“Jaskier-“

“You can go now.” Jaskier still didn’t look up.

Geralt remained where he was sat, silent and frozen.

“What, waiting for me to make a joke, sing a silly sing, fall at your feet to kiss your boots?” He took a long pull. “Fuck off, Witcher.”

“Jask-“

“No, Geralt.” Jaskier slammed his mug down onto the table. Geralt flinched. “You don’t get to swan in here after all of the shit you said to me and expect a warm reception. Go crawl back to your sorceress.”

Geralt looked like he’d been slapped. A few years ago Jaskier would have been horrified to see such open and blatant emotion of the Witcher’s face, but now he just felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Geralt opened his mouth a few times, looking for words, before nodding silently and returning to his usual scowl.

Jaskier stood, steeling himself before striding towards the stairs without a word.

He turned towards the door to his room, opening it and half-stepping through, before sighing and half-turning back.

“You’ve made it abundantly clear that you want nothing to do with me. So now I’m out of your hands. Clear off.”

“Jask-“

“Give me one good reason, Geralt.”

“I missed you.”

Jaskier shut the door. He slumped back against it, face in his hands, and took a deep breath. This would be difficult to spin into a song.

When he looked up, Ciri was frowning at him from the bed.

“Who was that?”

There was no use lying. She was far too clever for that, and he’s always been a fairly terrible liar.

“That, my dear, was Geralt of Rivia.”

//

Bright and early the next morning, Jaskier was ready to put everything behind him and move on with his life. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and all was right with the world.

Tugging on his doublet, careful not to wake Ciri, he made his way over to the door to get breakfast.

Geralt of Rivia was standing outside the door holding a laden tray.

Jaskier slammed the door shut, freezing in place and trying not to hyperventilate before whirling around and mapping an escape route. Ciri groaned, glaring at him from her cocoon of blankets.

“How high is that window from the ground?”

“What now?”

“Geralt of Rivia is standing outside our door. With _breakfast_.”

Ciri clearly didn’t follow.

“More than a decade,” Jaskier gesticulated, “more than two decades, and not once has he bought me breakfast. Not once. He wouldn’t even call me his friend. And now he shows up, apologises and fetches me breakfast.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Not at all!” Jaskier flailed. “He’s clearly possessed, or perhaps this isn’t even Geralt at all. Whatever it is, it’s about to kill us both and eat our livers, so we need to leave.”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier ignored her, haphazardly stuffing things into his bag and swinging his lute onto his back. “This is all my fault, he followed me to our room, and now we can’t get out, Ciri I’m-“

“ _Jaskier_.”

Ciri was stood tall, hands on her hips and a glare that she definitely inherited from her grandmother. Jaskier stopped reluctantly, dropping the bag to the floor.

“Maybe he actually missed you.”

“Witchers don’t have emotions,” Jaskier spat, “least of all regret.”

Ciri sighed. “You should talk to him.”

Jaskier snorted a laugh. “Tried that.”

“Did you?” she sounded unconvinced.

Jaskier ignored her, continuing to pack, until he heard the door open behind him. This is why he never had kids, he thought silently, cursing whatever Gods had given Ciri her grandmother’s balls.

“You’re here to apologise?” Her hands were on her hips, staring down a bloody Witcher wrapped in a duvet.

“Hmm.” Jaskier knew that ‘ _hmm_ ’. It was his bewildered ‘ _hmm_.’

“Let me rephrase that. You’re here to apologise.”

“Hmm.”

“Good start.” She marched back to the bed, ignoring the shock plastered over Jaskier’s face, and threw on her cloak. “I’m going to wait downstairs. Don’t kill each other.”

Jaskier nodded, dumbfounded.

She strode past Geralt, still holding the tray awkwardly in the doorway.

Jasker coughed, standing up from where he was crouched. “So.”

“So.” Geralt agreed.

Jaskier motioned to the bed, and Geralt, surprisingly, obeyed.

“What was the last thing you said to me?” Jaskier was stood, leaning against the window frame with arms crossed over his chest. Geralt was sat, hunched gingerly at the edge of the room’s bed.

Geralt grunted. “If I was a doppler I would be able to access that memory.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.” Jaskier waved a dismissive hand. “Geralt also told me that dopplers do a shit job of acting like the people they’re impersonating, and this, my dear, is a corker.”

Geralt winced, glaring at the floor. “I told you that if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you out of it.”

“Now that’s more like it.”

“And that’s really what you want?” Geralt looked confused. “Yesterday, you-“

“At least that sounds more like Geralt.”

Geralt looked wounded.

Jaskier sighed. “I just don’t know why I should believe you.”

“And I don’t know how to convince you.”

They stayed in that uneasy silence, breakfast tray untouched between them. Occasionally, Jaskier would think of something to ask, but would think better of it before the words left his lips. Geralt had returned to his usual brooding silence, but there was a strange injured vulnerability to it. Jaskier had no idea how long they’d been sat there, this standoff, until the silence was broken in the worst way possible.

From somewhere below them, Ciri screamed.

Jaskier was on his feet before it had properly registered, a horrified glance shared with Geralt before they both bolted out of the room.

//

Jaskier was half-tempted to blame Geralt for all of this. Oh, how the tables had turned.

The bar was a wreck, chairs overturned and glass smashed across the floor. Ciri was backed into a corner, clutching her cloak round her protectively, lip quivering as she watched the beetle-armoured soldiers slowly encroach.

Jaskier cursed, silently. Two minutes she’d been out of his sight, _two minutes_. He felt for the dagger hidden in his doublet as Geralt brandished his sword, hefting it impatiently.

Catching Ciri’s eye, he raised his finger to his lips before motioning for Geralt to circle right as he crept to the left, and to his surprise Geralt obeyed. The soldiers were too focused on the princess to notice and, satisfied with their positioning, Jaskier motioned a ‘ _go_ ’.

Ciri screamed.

The soldiers were blown backwards in a manner very reminiscent of that damned betrothal feast all those years ago but it gave Jaskier, braced for the impact, time to strike.

He leapt on one of the soldiers from behind, driving a dagger into his chest and throwing him to the ground. Geralt was a whirling dervish, slicing down anyone in his path in a way that Jaskier desperately didn’t want to find impressive.

Geralt dispatched the last soldier and- no, there was one more. One more, who was running and pulling Ciri along with him.

Hefting the dagger, Jaskier steadied himself, aimed, and threw.

It sank into the back of the soldier’s head.

Geralt stared at him in disbelief. Jaskier shrugged.

“I’m not completely useless.”

//

The three had fled into the woods, Geralt retrieving Roach as they’d made their exit. Jaskier was leant against a tree, trying to catch a breath and process _what the everloving fuck_ was going on. Ciri was down by a stream washing the blood off of her face.

She was fine, thank the gods. Shaken, but fine.

Out of the three of them, oddly enough, it seemed to be Geralt who was the most unsettled. He’d continuously stalked the edges of their makeshift campsite, eyes flashing at any rustle in the treeline. Eventually, tired of watching him pace, Jaskier coughed and indicated to a space opposite him for Geralt to sit. Geralt sat.

“So.”

“Is that Princess Cirilla?”

Jaskier nodded.

Geralt looked stunned. “How did you find Princess Cirilla?”

“Well, it’s Ciri. And when we’re in public, it’s Fiona. But seeing as you were so sure her very existence was somehow my fault, I thought I might as well take responsibility for her.” Jaskier shrugged. “And I haven’t seen you looking for her.”

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Jaskier shook his head. “Don’t say things like that.”

Geralt’s face was open, heartbreakingly open. “I meant it, before. I missed you. The breakfast was- I don’t know how to apologise, Jaskier.” He shifted forward, almost within reach. “I want to fix this but I don’t know how.”

“Fix what, Geralt? Get it back to the way it was? We weren’t even friends.”

“Then let me make it better.” He moved a little further, almost into Jaskier’s personal space. “I’m so sorry, Jaskier.”

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, desperately fighting for control over his emotions. “You broke my heart, you know that?”

Geralt reached for his hands. “I-“

“Don’t.” Jaskier held up a silencing hand. “You know what else, Witcher?” Geralt said nothing as Jaskier leaned in close, and in a quiet voice whispered, “She plays the lute, too.”

(This was, in fact, a lie. Jaskier had managed to teach Ciri two chords before she’d got bored. Regardless, it was worth it for the suitable look of horror in Geralt’s eyes.)

//

“You know how much you hurt Jaskier, don’t you?” Ciri was wrapped in a blanket nest on the inn’s bed, watching Geralt carefully.

Geralt nodded.

“How are you making it up to him?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure.”

Ciri scowled. “How about you start with his voice?”

Geralt cocked his head, questioning.

“Maybe you should go down and watch him.” It wasn’t a question.

Geralt shook his head. “He told me to stay here. With you.”

“That’s because you told him you hate his singing. Also, he made you stay here because he thinks this is ‘Destiny Bonding Time’.” Ciri paused. “I can see the way you look at him, when he’s not watching.” Geralt huffed. “He deserves to see that too.”

“Hmm.”

Ciri scooted closer. “You know they’re all about you, right?”

“Hard to miss, isn’t it? All the lyrics about monsters and swords and destiny.”

Ciri shook her head, frustrated. “They’re all about you.”

//

Jaskier was having a fairly good show downstairs. Drinks and coin were flowing, he hadn’t been pelted with fruit, and it didn’t sound like Geralt and Ciri were at each other’s throats upstairs.

As he brought his more recent jaunty hit to a rousing close and began to , he nearly dropped the damn lute when his eyes met golden ones. The strings twanging a horrifically out-of-tune chord. He powered through, wondering how long he’d been standing and watching and how adept he was at picking up on certain lyrical themes. He’d already played _Her Sweet Kiss_ , for crying out loud.

But Geralt didn’t look angry. Frankly, he didn’t look like he was listening to Jaskier’s ‘filling-less’ voice at all, because he almost looked happy. There was a strange little smile playing at his lips, brows relaxed, as if Jaskier was the only thing he was focused on.

Once again, Jaskier was momentarily sure this was an imposter. But there he was.

As Jaskier sang, he listened the most intently.

When the song ended, his applause was the loudest of all.

And when Jaskier had collected up his coin, he was gone.

//

“He really is grumpy, isn’t he?” Ciri whispered as they followed behind Roach on a newly acquired mare.

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier whispered back, “his sword does all the smiling for him.”

Ciri giggled. Geralt turned back, a curious expression on his face. Jaskier grinned and waved him off.

//

Geralt had told Jaskier not to come. Had yelled at him to stay back, where he was safe, because Jaskier needed to be safe, anything else was unacceptable. Why wouldn’t he listen? One request, just one, for Jaskier’s benefit.

But Geralt had been on the ground, pinned to the ground by one of a kikimora’s legs speared through his shoulder. The kikimora crouched over him, drooling tauntingly over him as it sized up its next meal when _crack_ , Geralt’s sword collided with its carapace.

“Take that, you overgrown cockroach-“ Jaskier cried from somewhere to Geralt’s left, and the kikimora’s head snapped over to the bard, ripping its claw from the Witcher. Geralt groaned, trying to push himself up to see the bard, warn him to _get back_ but it was too late. Jaskier raised the sword once more, brandishing it like a rapier, and crowed “en garde!” before taking another jab at the hulking, looming beast.

It all played out in slow motion from there.

Geralt watched as Jaskier, faced away from him, feinted to one side as the kikimora’s leg pierced the ground to his right and thrust upwards into the thing’s torso. It let out a ratting groan as it slumped forward onto the blade.

Jaskier spun with a grin. “Told y-“

The bard looked down with a frown. One of the kikimora’s claws was protruding from his chest.

Jaskier blinked.

And then he took one unsteady step forward, and then another, and then fell into Geralt’s arms.

Geralt had never felt frantic. Witchers didn’t feel frantic. As he laid Jaskier down on the dmp ground, however, he was practically shaking with fear.

Jaskier coughed, blood trickling down his chin, but it wasn’t like the wish because the blood was everywhere and “ _you’re going to be okay, Jask, just stay with me, okay stay with me Jask_ ,” and Jaskier smiled a bloody smile and raised a bloody hand to Geralt’s cheek and murmured “I accept your apology,” and then his eyes were rolling back into his head and he went limp in Geralt’s arms.

Geralt _howled_.

//

Somewhere far, far away, a sorceress felt a strange tug in her gut.

//

There’s a lot happening around him, cries and whispers and then someone’s shoving, pulling Jaskier out of his hands and he’s growling, snarling, hissing and clawing at whoever’s trying to take his bard away from him. Someone’s yelling to leave them alone, but he can’t tell if they’re talking to him or the other person and right now he doesn’t care. The other gets more concerted in their efforts before all of a sudden everything dims, and Geralt’s left to fall backwards into the darkness with only a flash of purple and the feeling of Jaskier, cold in his arms.

//

Geralt woke up alone. It looked like he was in a cheap room in an inn somewhere, tucked into a tiny cot in the corner. His armour and weapons were stacked neatly in the corner, but apart from that the room was bare.

He sat up, groaning as he jostled his hastily bandaged shoulder, and suddenly everything came flooding back. The fight, the kikimora, the-

Jaskier.

It hit him like someone had dropped a boulder on his chest, all the air punched out of his lungs. Jaskier was dead. He’d held Jaskier in his arms as he died and he couldn’t do anything and he was dead, _Jaskier was dead_.

Geralt wanted to find the first person the say that Witchers had no feelings and crush their skull under his heel. He clenched his fists into the sheets, screwing his eyes shut and trying to breathe, but the air wasn’t getting in. He could feel every creak of wood, every stratch of an insect, every breath of a patron in the building but none of them were Jaskier, none of them would every be his bard because his bard was dead. Hunched over, he was almost completely deaf to his surroundings until he heard the door creak open. He leapt up, braced to attack whoever entered the room, but it was Ciri.

Her eyes were red and she looked exhausted, but she was whole. Before he could blink, she had thrown her arms around him and hugged him so tight he lost any air he’d previously managed to inhale. He hugged her just as tight back.

“I’m so glad you’re awake!” She pulled back, just far enough to let him inspect her for injuries. There was a streak of blood across her forehead, but nothing more substantial. “I came to check on you because Yen wasn’t sure how long you would be unconscious for, but-“

“Yennefer’s here?”

Ciri nodded. “She couldn’t come check on you herself because she’s still tending to Dandelion-“

Geralt froze, grip tightening ever so slightly. “What?”

Ciri nodded with a frown, before her eyes widened in realisation. “Oh, Geralt, of course. He’s alive, it’s okay.”

Geralt’s heartbeat slowed to a stop.

Witchers don’t cry. Witchers _can’t_ cry. And yet, here they were.

It wasn’t dramatic, no great roar of anguish or relief or hope - simply one tear, followed by another, rolling down his cheeks unimpeded. Ciri, wise beyond her 13 years, guided him back towards the bed, tentatively sitting him down and wrapping as much of an arm around his shoulders as she could. And Geralt, for the first time since his mother had left him on that gravel road a century ago, let himself weep.

“I think Yennefer might be close to finished,” Ciri prompted gently, “do you want to see him?”

Geralt nodded.

Ciri squeezed his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

She led him unsteadily into the corridor, knocking hesitantly on the door opposite. After a moment, it swung open to show Yennefer, looking more frazzled than he had ever seen her. She barely had time to look surprised at his appearance before he pushed past her, staggering over to where Jaskier lay. Yennefer didn’t try to stop him.

He dropped to Jaskier’s side, checking his wrist for a pulse with trembling fingers. And there it was. Slow, weak, but there. He clutched it to his chest, allowing the tension to finally drop from his shoulders. He hunched over Jaskier, watching him breathe and trying to remind himself that this is real, he’s alive, he’s okay.

Behind him Yennefer murmured something to Ciri, who left quietly. Yen waited for a moment, observing silently, before walking to stand next to Geralt, placing a hand on his bandaged shoulder. He didn’t acknowledge it.

“He’s not going to wake any time soon,” Yennefer informed him, eye cocked in that ‘I know something you don’t’ manner of hers, “but it won’t do him any harm if you stay.”

Geralt nodded, smoothing Jaskier’s hair back with the hand that wasn’t still clutching at his wrist.

“Took you long enough.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t jostle his injuries too much.”

Geralt glanced back in time to see her skirt swirl around the corner as she disappeared.

Jaskier seemed far too small at the centre of the bed. Stripped of his bright clothing, his glaring personality, his lute, he was swaddled in bandages and dwarfed by the rumpled sheets. All of a sudden, now that the panic and grief and fury and dissipated, Geralt felt truly weighed down by the events of the day. Without so much as peeling back the sheets, he settled next to Jaskier, cushioning his head on Jaskier’s shoulder, and allowing the slow thump of his bard’s heartbeat to lull him gently to sleep.

//

Jaskier was awake when Ciri checked in on him.

Still too pale, he was propped up as much as he could with an unconscious Witcher sprawled half on top of him, carding his fingers through Geralt’s loose hair. He smiled as he saw Ciri, raising his finger to his lips, before beckoning her over with a smile.

Ciri sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.

“It’s a shame, really,” Jaskier whispered conversationally, ”that doublet was new.”

“I thought you were going to die.” Ciri fought to keep the waver out of her voice.

Jaskier shook his head, taking her hand. “Oh, you know me better than that.”

“Geralt thought you were dead.”

Jaskier looked back down at the Witcher, whose head was still on his shoulder. “Did he now?”

“He was so scared, Dandelion.”

“Well, how about that.”

“He tried to attack me when I came close. Wouldn’t let go of you. If it wasn’t for Yennefer-“

“Yennefer?”

Ciri nodded. “She turned up out of nowhere. Geralt screamed and bam, there she is, saving your life.”

Jaskier looked distant for a moment, processing the information. “Looks very peaceful now, doesn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t want to wake him up.” Ciri stood, hesitantly, before darting forward and pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek. “Glad you’re okay.”

Jaskier beamed. “I would never leave you alone with this brute, would I?”

Ciri padded back to the door quietly, but just as she was leaving she heard Geralt stir. She paused by the door, peeking back in.

“Jask.” Geralt sounded almost reverent. “You’re okay.”

Jaskier’s voice was soft. “You never called me ‘Jask’, before.”

Geralt kissed him.

Ciri smiled to herself and left them to it.

//

Geralt pulled back after a moment, burying his face into Jaskier’s neck and willing himself not to cry again. Just holding him, breathing him in, knowing that he was _alive_ and _whole_ and _okay_. Jaskier hummed contentedly, resting his chin on Geralt’s head.

“Finally.”

Geralt huffed what felt almost like a laugh and squeezed him tighter, careful not to disturb any injuries.

“What was it about this time, hmm?” Jaskier’s tone was teasing. “It’s hardly the first time I’ve swooned like a damsel into your arms.”

Geralt pulled back, just enough to press his forehead to Jaskier’s, let Jaskier could see the red around his eyes, the dark circles that weren’t caused by any potion.

The teasing tone disappeared. “Gods above, you really were scared, weren’t you?”

Geralt opened his mouth to respond, but shook his head and pressed back into Jaskier’s shoulder. He’d never felt so _vulnerable_. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. ”You weren’t at fault, you were never at fault, it wasn’t a blessing, without you, it was a curse. I missed you, I-“

“Hey, hey.” Jaskier hugged him to his chest, concerned. “Slow down. I forgave you, ages ago.”

Geralt shook his head, burrowing deeper. “But I never said it.” Jaskier’s heart was beating fast, and Geralt could feel it, focus on it, force the panicked voice in the back of his mind to wither up and die. “I never told you. You’re mine, and you _died in my arms_ , and I never told how much you mean to me.”

“Geralt, look at me.” Jaskier’s tone was commanding, but tinted with an anxious hurry.

Geralt did. Jaskier was watching him not with eyes wide but instead narrowed in concern, brows furrowed and head cocked every so slightly. “I know, Geralt.” Jaskier cupped his cheek gently. “You didn’t need to tell me. You proved it. And I love you, too.”

Geralt closed his eyes, bringing his hand up to cover Jaskier’s and squeezing it.

Jaskier hummed, thumbing over Geralt’s cheekbone before pressing a kiss of his own to Geralt’s lips. The angle and the bard’s general lack of mobility made it a little difficult, but Geralt responded immediately, propping himself up over Jaskier and kissing back like a drowning man.

The tension in Geralt’s shoulders eased slowly. Eventually, pulled away to press kisses down Jaskier’s throat before settling back down onto the bed and curving protectively around Jaskier.

“I’m here,” Jaskier whispered ever-so-softly, and Geralt basked in the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from 'Wolf' by Phildel, and the song Jaskier sings is 'Welly Boots' by the Amazing Devil (a song written by Joey) because those lyrics are Uncanny. Go listen.
> 
> Also, look. I know Posada isn't on the route from Sodden to Oxenfurt but. Suspend your disbelief that far, I beg you.
> 
> I have a couple of ideas to follow this up, but let me know if that's something you'd like! Might have the group going to Kaer Morhen because I love my Witchers. Also? More Jask & Ciri content. Let's see.
> 
> \--
> 
> A little segment that didn't quite fit:
> 
> “You finally got your child, then?” Yen 
> 
> “Jaskier did first. He’s her bard.”
> 
> “Somebody jealous?”
> 
> Geralt huffed.
> 
> \--
> 
> Kudos and comments mean the world <3


End file.
